Arrested in aisle eight

It started so innocently. It's not my fault I've got dementia, aged 40.

You're nicked

Okay, the top item on my list of things to do was ... brace yourself ... 'Write shopping list'.

With that list, I felt so organised and efficient. I felt like Barak Obama on one of Mitt Romney's bad days. I felt like I was going places. Like I was Laverne and Shirley in their opening credit sequence. You know: 'We're gonna make our dreams come true'.

Anyway, trying not to get distracted by memories of 70s trashy TV sitcoms, I sat down and wrote that shopping list.

But I forgot to then cross it off the original meta-list. So when I later lost the shopping list – and then forgot that I'd ever written it – I saw that it wasn't crossed off the meta-list, so I convinced myself that I hadn't written the list at all.

So I rewrote it, even better than the first time, in lovely neat handwriting, remembering those obscure little things like two warm bayonet 15-watt energy-saver mini-globes. Just one thing: I lost that list too.

The next day I wrote a new meta-list. The first item: 'Write shopping list on really large piece of paper'.

I don't know why I seemed to attract such odd stares at the supermarket that evening, carrying around a wobbly sheet of A2 paper, the list written with a fat black marker pen in a font large enough for most any preschooler to feel at ease.

Sure, people stared. But it was mostly going fine until I asked a woman if I could use her back as a support to tick off some items. And that, unfortunately, was when I was escorted to the station.

The top item on today's meta-list: 'Print new shopping list on 400gsm mount-board'. I'm back in control.